


Sizing Up

by spinninginfinityboy



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Friends With Benefits, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Piercings, Service Top, Trans Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:41:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23754778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinninginfinityboy/pseuds/spinninginfinityboy
Summary: “Oh,Martin,” Tim says, joy in every syllable. “When you said it came with accessories, I had no idea you meantthis.”orMartin gets a new packer, and Tim takes him to dinner.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Comments: 8
Kudos: 108





	Sizing Up

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the fact I never see fic where trans guys wear packers and yet every trans guy I know wears a packer. Martin's brand is unspecified but I used the reelmajik as my inspiration. This was a headcanon that got out of hand, I love these two so much goddamn.
> 
> There is not as much explicit sex in this as the tags may make it seem because I am terrible at writing it and I cut away at the bedroom door like it's a movie from the sixties

Tim has been staring all morning.

It started out subtle enough – he’s good at furtive glances, wearing a perfectly sincere mask of innocence as he mentally removes layers of clothing from the object of his gaze. Nothing he’d ever act on without permission, naturally, but his thoughts are his alone and there’s hardly any other work to be done around the archive. Not work Tim would willingly do, anyway.

After so many years of idle fantasy Tim has all but honed his skills to perfection – sizing up a potential partner before they so much as touch, with uncanny intuition about exactly how to take them apart, piece by piece.

Martin took work. He was so anxious, all the time, wound so tight and so willing to give that Tim had all but made up his mind at first sight that he would learn how to make Martin relax and receive for once. For twice. For as many times he might be asked, and Tim made it a point of pride that he was always, always asked back.

He’d considered making it simply a perk of the job, workplace benefits, but no – for some of the others, maybe, but Martin needed friendship even more than he needed anything else, because Tim knew instinctively that he’d never relax with only one without the other. Even when their encounters consisted of nothing more than a pub dinner, Sasha laughing along with them, side by side and bickering over the answers to some rerun of _Who Wants to be a Millionaire?_ , Tim was proud that Martin always asked him back.

No strings attached. As their friendship grew, Tim almost felt strings leave him. The Archives couldn’t force them to like one another. This was a choice. Tim had seen the way Elias glared at Tim’s jokes, dripping venom as Martin giggled quietly. Now that was a perk of the job.

Now, lunch break a distant memory and clocking out time tantalizing yet so very far, he has abandoned all pretense at subtlety.

Martin stirs his tea like an incantation, thrice clockwise, once counterclockwise, and repeat. At the sound of Tim’s voice the teaspoon jolts to a halt, sending hot, milky liquid splashing across the break room countertop.

“You’ve gone up a size.”

He doesn’t even have to turn around for Tim to see he’s blushing. The red flush spills past his cheeks, coating his neck and tipping his ears with crimson. 

“Martin, come on,” he says, “you don’t need to hide.”

When Martin does turn, the spoon rattles so violently against the side of the cup that Tim reaches out and lifts it up. He runs his tongue over it and winks before putting it in the sink.

The inherent suggestiveness of the action doesn’t get quite the result he hoped for. To his confusion, Martin almost looks about to cry.

“Oh, god, is it that noticeable?”

Martin puts down his tea in a rush and bunches his fingers instead in the fabric of his trousers, just by the pockets.

“Does it look… inappropriate?”

He makes a noise between a laugh and a sob and Tim shakes his head, desperately trying to wrestle the wrong end of the stick away from Martin. For his part, Martin is shaking his head and pulling back, edging towards the door.

“I’m going to change, I- you- can you cover for me? Not that Jon’s going to notice, he never- well,” and there’s that miserable laugh again, and Tim steps between him and the door. If he can’t get a word in edgeways then he’ll get one in by force.

“Martin, breathe. It’s fine. I only noticed because, believe it or not, I do look at you.”

Martin shoots him a disbelieving look and Tim laughs.

“Yes, I do! God, Martin, you don’t think I don’t remember what you look like naked?”

“Keep your voice down!” Martin squeaks, glancing desperately at the door.

Tim shrugs, moving towards Martin, the perfect image of apologetic acquiescence as he leans in to whisper in Martin’s ear. His voice drops low in a way that he knows makes Martin squirm, and which he can’t pretend he doesn’t know sounds a little like Jon’s, deep in a statement.

“It’s not a sight I’d want to forget.”

He pulls back quickly enough to catch Martin’s flustered grin, ineffectually hidden by the downward tilt of his head.

“Is there any reason, though? I thought you were happy with the old one.”

Martin shrugs, the tension in his shoulders easing a little as he picks up his mug and takes a sip.

“The holiday pay bonus came in,” he says, and Tim nods. “The old one… you’ve seen it, it’s not exactly…”

“Realistic?” Tim grins. “Don’t know what you mean, Martin. My dick’s bright purple and sold for a tenner as a stress toy for people who like a laugh.”

“I didn’t ask for your online dating profile, Tim,” Martin retorts, and Tim laughs again. It had taken a long time to coax that sharp humour from Martin, but it was so very worth the wait. “But, well, yes. And so I thought I’d try something a little higher quality.”

“Makes sense,” Tim replies. The awkwardness faded, he leans against the counter beside Martin. For a few moments, the pair sit in companionable silence, aside from the whirring of Tim’s mind at the prospect of exactly what might constitute high quality. After some deliberation, he starts to hum, innocence once more lying false across his face.

_Who wants to be a millionaire?_

Martin smiles into his tea.

“I do,” he sings in response, rolling his eyes fondly. Tim beams.

“Wonderful. My holiday pay came in too – my treat. Sasha’s away on recon, so it’ll be just us. I’m sure that’s okay with you?”

It isn’t really a question, but Martin nods anyway, because he knows what the real question underneath it is and Tim is always sure to reaffirm his consent.

“The usual?”

“I’ll book us a table,” Tim says, prompting a laugh from Martin. Their ‘usual’ is a small bar, comfortable and old enough it almost feels worn entirely into the bones of the street, and there are rarely more than ten people in the place. No need to book a table there. Sasha had tried to have a word with the owners – an elderly lesbian couple, who treated Martin like a son to them and had a gentleman’s agreement with Tim to never allow Elias in when any of them were there – in an attempt to start some online advertising, but Tim secretly hopes they never listen. The food is delicious, and he doesn’t want to see them driven out by London gentrification. After a shift in the Archives, it’s nice to go somewhere so safely unnoticed.

Martin stops him as he moves to leave. The touch on Tim’s arm is gentle, but he shivers nonetheless at the way Martin’s hand wraps around him.

“Seven?” he asks.

“ _Millionaire_ starts at six.”

“Six it is.” Martin smiles. “See you soon, Tim.”

Tim doesn’t get much work done, after that. At five-thirty he all but leaps over his desk, an absent “See you tomorrow, boss,” in the direction of Jon’s office and a middle finger pointed in the direction of the director his only farewells before he’s lighting up a satisfied cigarette outside the main entrance. Martin joins him a few minutes later, ink stains on his fingers from whatever research he’s spent the past hours working on, and as they make their way to the pub Tim details some of the more blatantly ridiculous statements he’s been forced to take that week.

Martin insists on buying the first round of drinks, and then thoroughly trounces Tim in their play-along of the old game show, which at least saves Tim the trouble of feeling obliged to pay him back with anything other than the main course. A plate of fish and chips for Tim and a hearty steak pie for Martin leaves them both in a state of full and lazy contentment, and they watch another couple of game shows together over a third pint. Martin still wins, but Tim claws back at least a little of his dignity, and doesn’t miss the way that Martin has been creeping closer to him with every question.

By the time Tim asks Martin back to his place – not that it had ever been a question, not since the break room – Martin’s hand had been inching up his thigh for fifteen minutes.

It’s not a long walk to Tim’s flat, but it’s long enough to wake them both up from their lazy post-dinner doze. The night is young still but darkness is beginning to creep across the streets, and Tim finds he hasn’t anything much to say. Martin breaks the quiet.

“It is bigger,” he says, casual but not casual enough to hide the embarrassed tremor beneath. 

“You have my attention.”

Martin gives him a playful shove, but continues.

“And it, uh… it comes with accessories.”

“Oh?”

Tim spun to face Martin, eyes wide.

“What are you holding out on me, Martin?”

“I don’t have it with me,” he says in a rush, almost apologetic, “but it… this one is, um. Functional?”

As if Tim’s night couldn’t get any better.

“Oh, Martin, you wait until now?”

“I was hardly going to say at work!”

Tim stares at him, and Martin blushes. He looks so pretty, even beneath the unflattering orange glow.

“Well. Next time we can go to my place,” he says, bold despite his embarrassment.

“Yes, please.”

Tim doesn’t bother to hide his pleased smile at the prospect of a next time. He always gets asked back.

There’s an urgency to the rest of their walk. Anticipation drives Tim’s step to quicken, and Martin matches him easily, the promise of more drawing ever closer until finally the door to his flat is in sight.

It’s barely closed behind them before Martin’s back hits the wall. Tim crowds him, pushing into his space. The first few times they’d done this, he had been hesitant, worried he’d push too far, but Tim knows now that the only way to ensure Martin relaxes is to make sure he doesn’t have another option. Martin doesn’t complain, instead sighing and letting his head fall back against the wall as Tim sucks a bruise into his neck.

“Can I blow you?” asks Tim, eager hands sliding up under Martin’s shirt and skimming along the hem of his binder. “Please?”

Martin gives a pleased little sigh, already letting Tim take what lead he can. Not one to let him off without a clarification, Tim kisses him slow and deep, then leans close to Martin’s ear.

“Martin,” he whispers, receiving a gratified whine for his troubles, “can I blow you?”

“Y- god, yes,” stammers Martin. Tim grins and drops at once to his knees, fumbling for Martin’s belt. By habit, Martin slides a hand into Tim’s hair, tugging just a little as he adjusts his grip and giggling at the way it makes Tim’s eyes fall shut, his muscles going limp.

“I’m fully dressed,” he tells Tim, “and you’ve still got your coat on.”

“Hm?” Tim looks up, a little dazed, and smiles. “Later. Please, god, I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

“Can’t you wait until we get to the bedroom?”

The words are light and teasing, but there’s a filthy undercurrent to them that makes Tim’s stomach flip and his cheeks flare. He hasn’t quite managed to get more than a few words of dirty talk out of Martin yet but he can hear it; hear the way the light-hearted sentence hides another, the words _can’t even wait to take your coat off, you’re so desperate for me_ ringing in Tim’s mind.

“First round’s on me,” he replies. “Main course comes after.”

Martin laughs at that, though it cuts off into a gasp as Tim kisses him, right at the waistband of his trousers. For a man in such a hurry he seems determined to take his time. Tim runs his fingers across Martin’s inner thighs, firm and decisive touches that always stop short of any destination, and matches every stroke with another exploratory kiss at Martin’s waist, occasionally dipping to mouth at the first hint of fabric visible through his open zip.

By the time he slips Martin’s trousers down past his hips, Tim’s got martin panting in anticipation. A frustrated groan falls from his lips as Tim pulls abruptly away, staring, hardly breathing.

“Tim, fuck, get on w- Tim?”

Martin’s needy tone falters, anxiety creeping in, and Tim grabs his hand in reassurance. He doesn’t look up, though. No. He’s far too focused on drinking in the sight that lies before him.

Instead of his usual cheap underwear Martin is wearing black boxer briefs with an O-ring stitched into the front. Tim recognizes it as a kind of harness, for those who find straps and buckles to be too much hassle. Instead of a toy, though, this harness holds what looks at first glance to be flesh and blood. The cock is flaccid, limp between Martin’s legs. Tim is almost offended for an instant before he remembers that of course it is. It’s hollow, thin rubber and paint, held by the harness in place. With this new size Martin is a little bigger than Tim, but he couldn’t give a rat’s arse about the sizing. He’s too busy staring at something else.

“Oh, _Martin_ ,” he says, joy in every syllable. “When you said it came with accessories, I had no idea you meant _this_.”

With one reverent finger he reaches out and traces one end of the barbell curving through Martin’s cock.

It takes a herculean effort to wrench his gaze away and look up at Martin, who is blushing again.

“It… I couldn’t afford one of them normally,” he explains, stammering a little. “But the website has a, kind of a sale section? They’ve got little flaws, maybe they’re not painted right or the rubber is too thin, but they’re half the price, easily.”

“And yours came with a piercing.”

“No!”

Tim laughs at the indignant tone. Martin sighs and then continues.

“It had a small hole in it, underneath,” he says. “I thought maybe this would make it look intentional. Or at least it would be funny.”

“It’s not funny,” Tim replies. He leans up and presses a kiss to the back of Martin’s hand, then guides it back to its position in his hair. “It’s absolutely beautiful.”

Before Martin can make the derisive little noise Tim knows is coming, he takes the cock in his mouth and sucks it. He’d intended this part to be something of a show – Tim knows how well Martin likes to see himself as he feels, how much better the sex is for both of them when he isn’t dysphoric – and he wasn’t prepared for the moan the action elicits from Martin, nor the way he pushes his hips forward as though the plastic cock has feeling after all.

“Fuck, Tim-“

“The old one never did this,” Tim murmurs, pulling away for just a moment before hollowing his cheeks around Martin’s cock once more.

“This one- hah!- it’s supposed to be an STP, and it – fuck – it’s got a – ah! – r – ridged bit, just at my cock.”

Tim groans, heat coiling low in his gut.

“Oh, yeah,” he says. “That’s definitely higher quality.”

He rocks back on his heels, looking up at Martin.

“So, wait. I can jerk you off?”

Martin’s only response is a shiver, biting his lip and nodding. 

“I can blow you? And you can feel it?”

“What do you think?” Martin manages, voice a little ragged as he gestures to himself. Look what you do to me, Tim. Without another word, Tim scrambles to his feet.

“Bedroom,” he says, tugging frantically at his own coat. Martin smirks at him.

“What about round one?”

“That’s one hell of an appetizer,” Tim retorts, grinning. “I’m going to take my time on this one.”

Martin laughs, then, and Tim is struck at once by how much he loves being able to do this. To make Martin feel comfortable, when everything else in the world seems intent on the opposite. He kisses him, a greedy thing with any words he might have lost in a wave of want. Martin grabs his arm.

“Do a good job,” he says, and Martin doesn’t give orders but the request falls easy from his lips and lands like a command, “and next time, you’ll see what it can do to you.”

Tim just laughs and drags Martin, stumbling in his unfastened trousers, into the bedroom. That won’t be a problem. Tim always gets invited back.


End file.
